


Dreams of Spring

by Shortsandramblings



Series: Ramdom Shorts (...and Ramblings) [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection, Prompt Art, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-05 05:30:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11006973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shortsandramblings/pseuds/Shortsandramblings
Summary: A collection of one-shots prompted by the title of the last of GRRM's ASoIaF books – A Dream of Spring.





	1. One-Shot Prompts - Note from Writer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarah_Black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/gifts), [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts).



> This collection of one-shots (future one-shots) is a (belated) gift to two amazing Stansa supporters, [Sarah_Black](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarah_Black/pseuds/Sarah_Black) and [Tommyginger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyginger/gifts), whose birthdays were last week, and for Sarah’s engagement. :)

 

As its title hints at, this is a collection of one-shots for which I was inspired/prompted by:

 

 

 

 The title of the last of GRRM's ASoIaF books – _A_ _Dream of Spring_

 

 

**_._ **

 

 

_"If this is a dream, I will kill the man who tries to wake me._ – Daenerys

 

 

 

**_._ **

 

 

And these two sketch-drawings, I drew recently:

  

[ ](http://s284.photobucket.com/user/shortsandramblings/media/Backs_zpsm5cb1zga.jpg.html)

 

=

 

 


	2. A Peach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The peach represents... Well... It’s pleasure. It’s… tasting the juices of life. Stannis is a very marshal man concerned with his duty, and with that peach Renly says: “Smell the roses”, because Stannis is always concerned with his duty and honor, in what he should be doing and he never really stops to taste the fruit. Renly wants him to taste the fruit but it’s lost. I wish that scene had been included in the TV series because for me that peach was important, but it wasn’t possible.” - George R. R. Martin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE thank you to [BlueCichlid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueCichlid/gifts) for helping me with this one shot.

 

 

 

=

 

 

 

**King's Landing - 303 AC**

 

 

 

“ _Would you care for a peach, my lord_?”

 

The question caught him off guard.

This was not because he had been staring forward, looking to the celebrations continuing in the hall below the dais. His fixed gaze still unused to seeing such an array of Houses seated next to each other in peace.  Nor were his eyes accustomed to such a palette of colours after years of whites, greys, blacks.  The wars and winter had made everything so bleak and colourless, only fit for crows.

Nor was it by his bride’s voice. True, Stannis had forgotten how youthful and sweet it was – not too different from the lady herself (making it all the more difficult to overlook that he was more than twice her age). Then again, how could he not have forgotten. They had exchanged no words since their saying their vows. They had barely said anything but a few superficial greetings and remarks to each other in all of their acquaintance, even once they had been betrothed by the Dragon Queen’s command.

_No_ , it was the fruit itself, and the stab of pain that accompanied it, that caught him unaware; the pain joined with a memory Stannis saw more often than not in his sleep.

He was forced to remind himself that his bride could not possibly know of the haunting echoes of the past such a simple question - such a trivial thing as a piece of _fruit_ \- could bring him. Of Renly mocking him, defying him, threatening him, and offering him a peach.* How could she have known? She had not been there at the parley. She had already been the Lannisters’ prisoner by then. Nor could she possibly know of the torment that continued to plague him. That most of his nights he dreamt of Renly. Of Renly and his _peach_. The fruit’s juices running his mouth... the blood from his throat.**

He dreamt of Robert as well. Robert laughing. Drinking. Boasting. All of these, and _fighting_.*** The night before they had marched on Winterfell, Stannis had dreamt of Robert charging towards the Northern castle’s gates alone, breaking them with his warhammer, slaying Bolton with his left hand and the Bastard with his right.*^ Yet it was Renly who came night after night, the fruit, red and gold, in his hand. That dream would plague him to his grave.

Leave it to his brothers to vex him not only on his first wedding but on his second one as well.

 

“ _My lord_?”

His eyes met light blue ones.

Stannis realised he had yet to answer her. As well as remind himself that his bride’s offering was not a taunt or provocation of any kind, but only a gesture of goodwill from a lady to her lord husband at their wedding feast.

He was tempted to refuse her all the same.

 

He opened his mouth, ready to respond, and... The words stilled in his throat, unuttered.

It was his onion lord’s face that made him pause. It was the image of his bride’s brot- _cousin_ walking her down the aisle, removing the grey Stark maiden cloak, before Stannis had cloaked her and put her under his protection, which halted the refusal. It was the lady herself that stopped him: the expectant look on her face, the youthfulness of her very much apparent, even with all the hardships Stannis could only imagine she had suffered (him being her latest).

It was all these and his brother’s voice.

  — “ _A man should never refuse to taste a peach. He may never get the chance again. Life is short, Stannis. Remember what the Starks say. Winter is coming._ ”

 

Stannis looked down at the offered fruit in her hand.

It was the first peach he had seen since Renly’s. In truth, he was surprised that the table offered such a treat. A luscious, juicy peach was one of summer’s pleasures. While the fighting was over, the realm was finally at peace and the climate warming, it was important to remember it was still winter, the harshest and deadliest winter ever recorded since the Long Night. Snow still covered half the land. Many homes and cities still needed much rebuilding.

Then again... it’s sight was not as astounding as when the green dragon had swooped down and had chosen him its rider rather than its supper ^*.

He heard them again, now - _the shouts…_ And then, looking out - _up_. _Dragons_.

The moment he saw the green beast circling above Stannis hadn’t felt fear. Even when the jade-green wings had cracked against the crisp morning air, and the beast had descended, his shining-bronze eyes, his jaw open heat coming from within…

Only wonder and _relief_.

_Relief_ for an answer to defeating their true enemy. _Relief_ that, although he was Robert’s true heir, the Red Woman with all her fires and prophecies, had been wrong, he wasn't Azor Ahai reborn - the idea always fantastical… No, another one was, flying high above against the cold northern winds on the back of her great black beast; not him.

_Relief_ that the throne, in the end, would be another’s duty. It had always been a mystery why so many had wanted it. He had never wanted to throne – not like Renly and the Tyrells had coveted it, not like the Lannister woman had clawed at it. - And at least this monarch wasn't blind to her predecessors’ madness (her father included) and recklessness (her brother included). Though her temper could be heated, she welcomed counsel.

_Aye_ , only wonder and relief. Overtaxed and alone - having received news that his wife and heir had both perished at the Wall (though finding out it only half true later) - he had just stared, seeing a living, (fire) breathing dragon before he perished. Let it be said that he died by a dragon, whilst his brothers... Robert had been killed by a boar, and Renly—

His jaw clenched.

Robert and Renly were gone, and he remained.

 

He focused on the fruit. It was not the bright yellow peach, with a near-crimson blush, that Renly had presented to him all those moon-turns ago. Its flesh had glowed golden - not too different from the Baratheon colour - once his brother bit into it; Renly smiling in his bright shining armour, his knights of summer surrounding him.

_No_ , this one was pale and pink; a promise to the white flesh within.

Inconsequential thoughts followed. A distant memory, from before the war, the deaths, Winter and dragons. White peaches were more delicate and more easily bruised than their golden brothers. This was due to them being supposedly sweeter, less acidic. He scowled internally at the notion.

It seemed more delicate; as if it would bruise if not handle with great care. In all honesty, he was uncertain which would injure more easily: the peach or the long, slender – just as pale - fingers holding it?

 

Nevertheless, he knew to refuse such a simple offering from his bride, so early in their marriage, would be a tactical error on his part. For all the hardships she had endured in her young life, she still seemed as ‘ _soft-spoken_ ’ and ‘ _sweet-and-caring_ ’ as her royal cousin had promised her to be. A lady with a love for songs, chivalry, and gallant knights with handsome faces (none which anyone associated with him).

A compromise came to mind. “Would you care to share the fruit, my lady?”

Her lashes fluttered - _delicately_ \- , before a small smile formed on her lips, and relief shone in her eyes. “A delightful idea, my lord.”

Without further ado – foregoing requesting any assistance from her husband, his bride swiped her knife from the table and sliced the fruit in half. The gesture was so swiftly done - the blade cutting the flesh so easily and with such dexterity - that Stannis was briefly reminded of rumours surrounding his bride; talk of her having sliced Lord Baelish’s throat open before pushing him through the Moon Door.

The reflection was quickly suppressed the next moment though, when she offered him the fruit was once more. _Half_ of the fruit.

His movements slow and careful, he took it. The handling could be excused for not wanting to damage it, yet Stannis knew some (most) of his cautiousness was in consideration for his rough, callused fingers to not touch his bride’s smooth porcelain skin - no matter how foolish the notion may be, as they would inevitably be _touching_ later. (A truth that had Stannis more apprehensive than anything else.)

 

Forcing musings of… _later_ from his mind, Stannis turned his attention once more fully on the fruit.

It was firm; tougher than he had expected. The fuzz of outer skin velvety and smooth. Pealing it, he cut flesh from stone, dividing it into three even parts, taking particular care to leave none of the actual food to waste.

His actions adequately meeting the expected aim, he took the first bite.

_Sweet_. The delicate floral sweetness was nearly _too sweet_.

_And yet_ , in the next moment there was a _tang_ , within its juices, that balanced the sweetness of the fruit, making the experience agreeable enough (and possibly making him regret sharing the peach).

Without any rush or dawdle, he ate the second, and then the third and last piece.

 

Once the fruit gone, his attention landed on the stone, for him to turn it through his fingers. _Dark_ – a crimson red - to the pale flesh. _Hard_ , to the delicate skin. _Coarse_ , to the smoothness and lusciousness of the fruit. It must be so strange and unexpected to find such a centre when one did not know it was there already.

He must have stared at it for so long, as his bride’s gaze altered between curiosity and concern, looking between him and the fruit.

Troubled by her scrutiny, he placed the stone carefully in his pocket. “I was thinking of taking the stone to Storm's End to plant. There used to be peach trees in the castle’s garden.”

The words barely spoken Stannis wondered why he had shared the idea. Or that he had mentioned Storm’s End at all. The anger and pain that accompanied thoughts of his burnt and blackened homeland simmered. At least he had not mentioned Renly. He did not think he could deal with talk of his brother and the pain that followed any longer, particularly with his young bride.

Yet, she did not mock or scorn him or the suggestion.

Nor, appreciatively, did she mention or ask _when_ exactly the return to Storm’s End would take place. King's Landing was nearly finished being rebuilt from the Lannister woman’s madness, but the Stormlands… Stannis could still recall when first hearing the news. Another pretender making himself known, taking Storm's End. But with their autumn conquest Connington and his mummer had brought greyscale.^** By the time the Dragon Queen had arrived, her dragons had been forced to cauterize the Stormlands. The castles remained - for the most part - but the land was still but charred earth, black and noiseless, waiting for new life—

“-I think it a fine idea, my lord—“

“- _Stannis_.” His teeth locked tight, his fist clenched, still smelling the burnt, the correction came harsher than he had intended.

Her smile dimmed, and her lashes fluttered once more.

His jaw twitched. He was not one for tempered words or actions. As his wife, it was best if she accept this truth quickly.

 

Yet, a blush followed. A similar shade to the light pink of the peach, prompting Stannis to momentarily wonder if the lady would taste as sweet as the fruit whose tang lingered on his tongue...

Especially the way she softly repeated his name to him not a moment later, “ _Stannis_ ”.

 

He jerked, quickly chastising himself for the lecherousness that threatened his mind.

Forcing such musings away, Stannis distracted himself with the first thing that came to mind.

“Would you care to dance my lady?”

 

The notion was actually not a bad one. Since his bride had been the one to proffer the fruit, it was his turn to return the gesture with an offering of his own.

Moreover, Stannis _had_ noticed her eyes wandering to the dance floor more than once. The action was possibly to study her cousin. Or even, like Stannis, to keep an eye on his current heir (her stepdaughter) and the young Dornish prince Shireen would soon have to wed. Yet, her royal cousin didn’t seem inclined to dance - a slight trepidation visible in his gaze (whilst his own Dornish bride danced with many, even with her stomach swelling slightly with the heir to the realm). Nor did Shireen and her betrothed seem interested for that matter; their attention was focused on each other, speaking in low tones, mindful of the onlookers surrounding them.

On the other hand, a certain wistfulness accompanied his wife’s gaze when she eyed those already dancing. Just as a certain pointedness joined the Queen’s fiery-violet gaze when she looked first at him and then at his bride (one the Imp- _no_ , the _Lord Hand_ had also worn, when Stannis’s bride had declined a second potential dancing partner).

At the very least, as the groom - _her husband_ \- Stannis could hope for a more promising response to the few who had asked before him.

 

“ _Sansa_... and yes, a dance would be lovely, thank you Stannis.”

Her smile returning, she extended her hand for him to take; – soft and delicate as he had assumed.

A hint of peach filtered through as she rose.

 

 

 

 =

 

 

 

**Storm's End – 312 AC**

 

 

 

“ _No Orys, you need to let father rest_.”

 

Sansa suppressed the smile that threatened to form at her lips. It was difficult to know which she was most impressed by: the level of command her eight year old daughter was able to muster, or the pout (scowl really) her five year old son wore in response; one which looked a little too similar to his father’s.

Not easily mollified, Orys quickly countered, “but I want to show him how much I have improved on my sword training”, all while waving his wooden blade to further his statement.

“You can do so later.”

Stubborn, not satisfied, Orys turned to look at Sansa, clearly ready for her deny Rhaenne’s claim to ‘ _let father rest_ ’.

Unfortunately for him, while it saddened Sansa to disappoint her son, her daughter was correct: their father did in fact need his rest. The many different Gods knew the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Master of Law, needed as much sleep as he could get, before Her Grace sent for him once more. Sansa doubted had Stannis slept much in the capital. As much as she wanted him to spend with his family - or for a few moments just the two of them - she was relieved to see that he had found shade to rest under. She could only hope Rhaegal and he wouldn’t have to fly back to King's Landing - away from them, away from her – too soon. They had only just returned to Storm's End last night.

 

Evidently anticipating their mother’s denial, and thus increasing Orys disappointment (and possible Baratheon temper), Rhaenne - _gratefully_ \- held out her hand to her brother and suggested, “Come Orys, why don’t we go practice together, so you will be all the more ready when father comes to see”, before Sansa had a chance to affirm or deny him.

There was a pause, the five year old considering the suggestion, before giving a firm - albeit reluctant - nod of acceptance, and took the proffered hand.

This was quickly followed by Robar wiggling out of Sansa’s lap to scamper after his older siblings. Having clearly also followed the exchange, he obviously did not want to be left out of their possible adventures.

Sansa held her tongue, all while wanting to call out for him to be careful. She knew he would not appreciate the attention. Just like his brother, Robar had reached that age where he wanted to be seen as a ‘ _man_ ’ and no longer a babe in his mother’s skirts. Indeed, he had corrected Ser Devan that he was ‘ _four and eight months – nearly five - not a child_ ’ a fortnight ago (in a tone Stannis would have been proud of).

Stannis would probably accuse Sansa of babying the boy as well. He knew she had a weakness for their youngest. In addition to being the only one with her lighter Tully-blue eyes, as a babe he had had a small turf of auburn hair. Whilst it had blackened as he grew – nearly as dark as his siblings – a glimmer of red would always shine in the sunlight, or even by candlelight. Like all her children, Sansa had wanted to give him the name of her father or one of her brothers, but their names came from those who had had a part in the Rebellion. As an alternative, Stannis had suggested ‘ _Robar_ ’, which she shortened to ‘ _Robb_ ’ when amongst the family.

 

So instead, with a soft sigh, Sansa silently watched as he reached his siblings; all three disappearing through the gates. After a final glance at the garden’s now-empty archway, Sansa turned to look towards her husband’s sleeping form.

Her smile returned. His place of solace was under _the_ peach tree.

_His_ peach tree. _Their_ peach tree.

 

In full bloom above him, a display of whites and pinks, it seemed to welcome the long-awaited spring, finally proclaimed by white raven a fortnight ago. It was one of the first trees planted in the young garden, and while others would surpass it soon enough, the tree was still one of the tallest and widest. Nevertheless, Sansa doubted either the foliage or its height and width were the main reasons Stannis had chosen this particular tree to rest under.

Though she had still been in King's Landing at the time, Sansa was certain Stannis had planted it himself. Just as she was confident that it had originated from the peach they had shared at their wedding feast.

He had flown between the capital and Storm's End several times the first years of their marriage, as the Stormlands slowly came back to life. Sansa could picture him, on one of his journeys (possibly even the first), having dug the rejuvenated earth with his bare hands, adding mulch, and watering it once the hole was covered. Just as he must have tended and watered the seedling during his following visits. By the time Sansa had arrived at her new home, Rhaenne a small child in her arms, it had already been a small sapling.

She never dared interrupt him, on those few mornings she woke early enough and found him working silently in the garden.

An aura of melancholy surrounded him.

One still existed now, but it had lessened in the years. His eyes – just for a moment – would fill with an undefined anguish when first sighting the tree, before they returned to their usual solemnity.

In a way, it had evolved to bring him a certain sense of calm; it was not to different from her father’s somber form beneath the heart tree, Ice across his lap, cleaning the blade.  

 

Sansa stood from her seat and moved towards man and tree.

The ground, thick with grass and flowers, swallowed the sound of her feet, allowing her to reach them without him stirring. Spreading her cloak, she sat beside his large body sleeping at the tree’s roots.

 

She still remembered Jon - the discomfort, the sombre look in his eyes - when he told her: he would wed Arianne Martell, Rickon was betrothed to a young Naathi lady - one of the queen’s advisors, Sweetrobin was a ward of the crown, and Sansa… she would wed Lord Baratheon.

The Gods loved their tricks. As a girl, she had dreamed of chivalrous knights, had been betrothed to a prince – heir to the throne -, all while Jon was a bastard - _her_ bastard brother, who she had all but ignored. But it was a mummer’s farce. Her prince was no prince, but a bastard (a vile one at that). The northern bastard was actually a southern prince.

From bastard, to man of the Night’s Watch, to prince and dragon rider… Proclaimed heir to the Throne, Jon was a near-stranger when he came - at his aunt’s behest - to treat with Sansa.  For all the men - her cousin and his knights of the Vale, her great-uncle and his Riverlanders - pledged to her, both Jon and Sansa had known they would be no match for three already very large dragons.

So, while his legitimacy – both his origin and non-bastardy - were still questioned by many, Jon wed a princess in her own right. And Sansa wed a man old enough to be her father; one who was neither king, nor prince, but a pretender…

She understood the decision. The last of the ‘ _would-be-kings_ ’. The last male of House Baratheon. It was a wonder that Daenerys let him live. Yet, additionally to Jon and Ser Barristan his champions, to all Lord Baratheon had done for the realm, and to, of course, conceding the crown to Aerys’ heir, one of her own dragons had chosen _him_ as its rider.

So when selecting his new bride, Daenerys had done so making sure to tie him by blood to the heirs to the throne. In the same way, Her Grace continued to keep Stannis and their children close at hand (only a short dragon ride away), and have the cousins see each other often enough to build a friendship.

If nothing else - like the Martells got their Baratheon bride - Sansa indeed married the Baratheon’s heir she had been promised all those years ago, just as Lady of Storm’s End was finally a Stark daughter.

 

Stifling a laugh, Sansa remembered the first time Daenerys visited to Storm's End since its restoration, accompanied by Jon, Arianne and their son, Prince Aemon.

Of course, back then, she recalled her heart stopping, her body frozen, unable to do anything but watch with the rest of them.

Barely three, the young prince had recognised and rejoiced in seeing his cousin, who had left him and King's Landing half-a-year previous. Similarly, Rhaenne had identified her past-playmate. Except that, in her daughter’s youthful exuberance, she had charged forwards, forgetting she held a toy – a wooden hammer (of course it had to be a _hammer_ ) - and had hit the dragon prince squarely in the chest, hard enough for him to fall to his knees, a small ‘o’ on his lips.

For a heart shattering second Sansa had been unable to look at anyone – especially not Daenerys - except the little dragon. And then – _finally_ – Aemon had grinned at Rhaenne, letting out a myriad of giggles, before taking the toy from his younger cousin (who was more than willing to share it), and hitting it several times on the floor next to him. While the toy had mysteriously disappeared the next day (Sansa pretty certain she had seen Stannis _accidentally_ give the toy to Rhaegal to _'play'_ with), Aemon had continued to be even more enthralled by his cousin ever since – even naming her ‘ _Storm Princess’_ (much to his mother’s and the Queen’s objections).

 

Her smile remaining, Sansa looked down at her husband. The father to her children.

Still asleep next to her, he almost looked the eight-and-forty years he actually was. His face was calm, his jaw loose and mouth slightly parted, the usual scowl withdrawn. Even the customary blue shadows under his eyes had lessened, nearly fully faded – _nearly_.

Stannis was the opposite to the handsome prince she had dreamed of. Gruff, hard, dark, hair receding, to the young, handsome, fair haired chivalrous hero. All the same, Sansa had always felt a sense of relief and contentment with him.

When Jon had told her of the match, he had spoken of a man harsh but fair, one that would never intentionally harm her, one who cared more than people realised.

In all his brusqueness and even harshness, Stannis _was_ what he promised. He possessed none of Joffrey’s evil, told none of Cersei poisonous lies, played none of Petyr’s wretched games.  For all the innocence _they_ had taken from her, Sansa was truly thankful she had come to her marriage bed (her second marriage bed) a virgin.

In his own way, her husband was even what her father had promised her as well,

  — “ _When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave and gentle and strong._ ”

 

The smile dimmed, her study resuming. The short blue-black beard was absent. The realisation that he had shaved since last night sent a slight tinge of disappointment through her. Secretly, – still too shy to reveal such a trivial thing to her husband - Sansa rather liked the slight chafe the prickly stubble left against her skin when he kissed her cheek... lips... neck... shoulder...

She felt herself heat some. There _were_ those rare times the tree seemed to turn Stannis’ gaze not desolate and sorrowful but wild and turbulent…

 

Truly, it wasn’t actually until she had come to her new home that Sansa had truly seen her husband anything other than the hard man, with his armour of iron resolve, that Cersei promised him to be.

She had witnessed him evoke emotion - very reserved - when looking or talking about his daughters. Just as he held a level of regard and consideration for both Lord Seaworth and for Jon. In his own way, he had also built a certain respect and esteem for Daenerys, who unlike her predecessors actually cared about matters of the realm.

However, the first time Stannis gave any indication of true interest or emotion towards _her_ \-  other than the consideration of her being his wife and mother to one of his daughters - was in this garden, by this tree.

Her cheeks started to burn. It had been when the tree offered its first ever fruit. Stannis had noticed it one morning, and had called both wife and daughter to view. In the following days, as it continued to ripen, he visited it daily, stretching his tall form and arm to gently tap the fruit, until one afternoon he had proclaimed it ready. Staring at it herself, Sansa had been caught off guard when he had asked if she wished to share it.

She saw it even now, large, round, soft and ripe... _succulent_...

Just as she still felt, after taking a second bight, the slight trickle that had escaped the fruit and had started sliding down her cheek…—

- _Suddenly_ , before she had a chance to wipe it, lips had pressed against her half open ones; his mouth covered her own as well as the fugitive nectar.

Pressing her against the tree, his fingers weaving in her hair, there had been _hunger_... _fury_ … as if he wished to _devour_ … _attack_... the fruit or her she wasn’t certain. It had been nothing like Petyr’s stolen-forced kisses… Nor had it been anything like Stannis had acted before, in the three years they had already been wed.

Until, just as suddenly, he was gone.

He had jerked - moved several steps away from her, his gaze stormy, staring at her in a mix of horror and want.

Bolder than she had ever been with this stern, hard husband, Sansa had asked if he wished for them to retire to her chambers (even if it was still only the afternoon).

The hours that followed had been a whirlwind of clothes being torn, drapes being thrown, gruntal whispers, ragged breathes, flesh being attacked, skin being kissed, gnawed, tasted… It had been so _intense_ … so incoherent, a ripple of sensations… So different from their usual coupling. Those always done in the dark, only once or twice per month (on the months they were in the same city), with his movements always so careful and controlled.

Although she had refused to ever use Baelish’ tricks to test the theory - the idea making her stomach heave, until that day Sansa had believed it impossible for her husband to be seduced; his only intent begetting a son. After doing their duty, he would always retire to the other side of the bed, before fully retreating to his own rooms some time before daybreak.

But this time, she had felt it all, seen it all… felt too much, seen too much… The sheets in disarray, the light still coming through the window, he had fallen in a deep slumber, his warm body wrung out, pressing against hers, one of his arm limply covering her stomach. Sansa had lay next to him, her own body still humming, hot and breathless from the exertions… The urge too great, she had turned on her side and studied him: fully naked, dishevelled, hair rumpled, mouth swollen, hair on his chest, scars... not only from the different battles he had fought in, but also marks from their impromptu afternoon.

 

The memory (and the peach) was a fond one also by the fact that Sansa was certain Orys had been conceived that afternoon, presenting Stannis with a son nine months later. Just as Rhaella had come barely nine months after their wedding, and as Robar had come nine months after the first fruit of the following year had matured a fortnight early.

 

 

Letting the sea-breeze cool her some, Sansa looked up to the peach blossoms. A few fruits were also present, growing within the branches.

Standing up, she smoothed her skirts before inspecting them further. One was large, its velvety fuzz a distinctive deep pink. She tapped it lightly.

Her smile grew, as her neck and cheeks heated once more.

She plucked the ripened peach carefully from the tree and put it within her cloak’s hidden pockets. Hopefully, Stannis would be amiable to sharing it with her this evening, in her chambers; they _did_ need some time just the two of them before he returned to matters of the realm.

 

In any case, although her husband might softly grumble that he was getting too old and weary for more _pups_ , Sansa still hoped for a second daughter – one with her long auburn hair.

 

 

 

=

 

 

 

A **Peach** in different cultures:

In several cultures the peach symbolizes longevity; namely China, Japan, Korea, and in Buddhism. (It is one of the “Three Blessed Fruits” in Buddhism, with the other two fruits are citrus which symbolizes happiness and pomegranate which symbolizes fertility.)

Also symbolises truth in Japan, and for many Western cultures, it can symbolize purity, virginity, youth, virtue and good works or, in thematic contrast, the vulva or the buttocks and from there, love and fecundity.

-> In Ancient Greece the peach was the sacred fruit of the god of marriage, Hymen. At weddings the guests would chant “O Hymenæus Hymen, O Hyymenæus Hymen”. This was the day the virginal state of the bride ended. Peaches were a symbol of a happy marriage.

In Korea the peach symbolizes happiness, prosperity, and longevity, whilst the peach blossom is a symbol of **spring**. It is a true good luck fruit. Still, there are some occasions the Koreans will not bring peaches to the table. It is told to have qualities which will drive away the spirits. Whenever honouring their ancestors it is well advised to keep this fruit far away. (- > I like the idea of the peach actually driving away/calming Stannis’ guilt/nightmares about his role in Renly’s death.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some context:
> 
> => With her three dragons, Daenerys remained the ruling monarch; especially when there were a few who continued to question Jon as Rhaegar/Lyanna’s or his legitimacy (even if he was a dragon rider). However, barren she didn’t marry, instead hoping to help rebuild a realm that worked together, Daenerys more-or-less forced several unions, including: Jon and Arianne Martell, Stannis and Sansa, Trystane (Quentyn dead) and Shireen, Rickon and Missandei (Missandei is the books age not the shows age)... not sure who Tyrion married (Margaery to keep the Tyrells in check? A distant Lannister cousin to reinforce his claim as Lord of Casterly Rock? One of Daenerys’ Essos supporters?...)
> 
> => Ages, based on the books:
> 
> \- In 303 AC: Sansa is 17 / Stannis is 39 // Shireen is 14 / Trystane is 16 // Jon is 20 / Arianne is 27 // Rickon is 8 / Missandei is 14 // Daenerys is 19 // Tyrion is 30
> 
> \- In 312 AC: Sansa is 26 / Stannis 48 = Rhaenne - 8 / Orys - 5 / Robar – 4 (barely a year younger than Orys) // Shireen is 23 / Trystane is 25 (with possible kids) // Jon is 29 / Arianne 36 = Aemon - 9 (possibly more kids) // Rickon is 17 / Missandei is 23 (with possible kids) // Daenerys is 28 // Tyrion is 39
> 
> -> The name _Rhaenne_ doesn’t actually exist in ASoIaF universe. It is linked to Stannis’ Targaryen grandmother - _Rhaelle_ – as well as a slight hint to Renly. I also liked that ‘ _reine’_ means queen in French and ‘ _rein_ ’/ ‘ _reine_ ’ mean pure in German. Plus, _Rheanne_ means is "great queen, or goddess” (Welsh) = > all in link with the slight hint that (though he won’t sit on the Throne) Stannis’ daughter will be queen one day.
> 
> -> For Stan/Sansa’s sons: both Orys Baratheon and Robar Baratheon were Hands to Targaryen Kings (hint that one will be Hand one day).
> 
> =
> 
> * - “Renly offered me a peach. At our parley. Mocked me, defied me, threatened me, and offered me a peach. I thought he was drawing a blade and went for mine own. [...]When he spoke of how sweet the peach was, did his words have some hidden meaning? Only Renly could vex me with a piece of fruit. He brought his doom on himself with his treason, but I did love him, Davos. I know that now. I swear, I will go to my grave thinking of my brother’s peach.” – Stannis Baratheon, _ACoK_
> 
> ** - “Renly and his peach. In my dreams I see the juice running from his mouth, the blood from his throat.” - Stannis Baratheon, _ASoS_
> 
> *** - “Robert ... He is in my dreams as well. Laughing. Drinking. Boasting. Those were the things he was best at. Those, and fighting. I never bested him at anything.” – Stannis, _ASoS_
> 
> *^ - “We all know what my brother would do. Robert would gallop up to the gates of [Winterfell](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Winterfell) alone, break them with his warhammer, and ride through the rubble to slay [Roose Bolton](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Roose_Bolton) with his left hand and [the Bastard](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/Ramsay_Snow) with his right. I am not Robert. But [we will march](http://awoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/March_on_Winterfell), and we will free Winterfell … or die in the attempt.” – Stannis, _ADwD_
> 
> ^* - Part of me thinks that Stannis doesn’t every truly believe that he is Azor Ahai reborn – especially with all his insecurities with regards to Robert. (So, basically, he only goes on the fact that he is Robert’s rightful heir). So just thought it would just be a funny/entertaining twist-of-fate and he would be super-surprised if one of Dany’ dragons chose him as its rider (though he would have prob felt cheated if it hadn’t chosen him).
> 
> ^** - In the books, ‘Aegon’/the Young Griff and Jon Connington, with the Golden Company, took Storm's End just before or around when the white ravens are sent to announce Winter, so taking a bit of ‘artistic licence’ could argue it was done in Autumn- i.e autumn conquest (especially since it actually didn’t last that long).


End file.
